Chapter 3

Chris found me an hour later at the Carlyle, where Senator Harrison had booked me a suite.

He looked frantic, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

"Ava, thank God! What happened? Why did you run off like that? You had me worried sick."

He tried to take my hands, but I pulled away.

"The satellite phone, Chris. I heard the recording."

His face went white. For a moment, the charming mask slipped, and I saw a flicker of something cold, calculating. Then, it was gone.

He sank onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair.

"Ava, please, let me explain."

"Explain what, Chris? That you have a son? That your three-year mission was a romantic getaway with your other family?" My voice dripped sarcasm.

"It wasn't like that!" he insisted, his voice earnest. "Maria Sanchez... she was a local informant in a border town in Mexico. Things got... complicated. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Leo... he just happened."

A mistake. Their son just *happened*.

"And you kept this 'mistake' a secret for three years while planning our wedding?"

"I was going to tell you!" he exclaimed, leaning forward. "I swear. I just needed the right time. I didn't want to lose you. Ava, you're the one I want to marry. You're the one I love."

His eyes, those deep blue eyes that had always held such power over me, were filled with what looked like genuine anguish.

For a split second, I almost wavered. The man I'd loved for five years was pleading with me.

Then I remembered the casual way he'd referred to me as "the New York heiress" on that recording. The way he'd discussed hiding his son.

"Save it, Chris," I said, my voice flat. "I'm done."

"No, Ava, don't say that!" He stood up, pacing the room. "We can work through this. I'll end things with Maria completely. She means nothing to me, I swear. It was just... proximity. Loneliness."

The excuses felt cheap, rehearsed.

Before I could respond, there was a soft knock at the suite door.

I opened it to find a woman standing there, her eyes red-rimmed. She was pretty, in a fragile way, with long dark hair. She clutched a small boy, about two or three years old, to her chest. The boy had Chris's eyes.

My heart stopped.

"Chris?" the woman said, her voice trembling. "I... I'm sorry to bother you. Leo, he... he has a fever. The doctor in that small town clinic said it might be serious. I didn't know who else to turn to."

It was Maria Sanchez. And Leo. His son.

Chris froze, his gaze darting between me and Maria. Panic flashed across his face.

"Maria, what are you doing here?" he hissed, then quickly composed himself, turning to me with a strained smile.

"Ava, this is... a colleague. Maria Sanchez. Her son, Leo. I told you about her, a local contact. She's... fallen on hard times."

Maria looked at me, her eyes wide and pleading. "Miss Gardner, I am so sorry. I know this is a terrible time. Chris has been so kind to us. My husband... he passed away. Chris was his friend."

She was a good actress. I had to give her that.

The little boy, Leo, coughed, a wracking sound, and snuggled closer to his mother, whimpering. He looked up at Chris with those familiar blue eyes.

"Papa?" he whispered.

Chris flinched as if struck.

He rushed to Maria's side. "Let me see him. Is he warm?" He placed a hand on Leo's forehead, his face a mask of concern. Genuine concern.

He looked at me, his expression a mixture of apology and desperation. "Ava, I... I need to help them. He's just a child."

I watched them – Chris, Maria, their son. A perfect little family unit.

And I was the outsider. The "New York heiress" he needed to "handle."

The pain was a dull, throbbing ache now, settling deep in my chest.

"Of course," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "You should help your... colleague."

The word felt like ash in my mouth.